“I, for one, desire nothing better than permission to talk to Mademoiselle,” said Mueller, gallantly.

"Mais, Monsieur...”

“Mademoiselle, with Madame her aunt, are going to the fete at Courbevoie?”

“Yes, Monsieur.”

“The river is very pretty thereabouts, and the walks through the meadows are delightful.”

“Indeed, Monsieur!”

“Mademoiselle does not know the place?”

“No, Monsieur.”

“Ah, if I might only be permitted to act as guide!  I know every foot of the ground about Courbevoie.”

Mademoiselle Marie blushed again, looked down, and made no reply.

“I am a painter,” continued Mueller; “and I have sketched all the windings of the Seine from Neuilly to St. Germains.  My friend here is English—­he is a student of medicine, and speaks excellent French.”

“What is the gentleman saying, mon enfant?” asked the old lady, somewhat anxiously.

“Monsieur says that the river is very pretty about Courbevoie, ma tante,” replied Mademoiselle Marie, raising her voice.

“Ah! ah! and what else?”

“Monsieur is a painter.”

“A painter?  Ah, dear me! it’s an unhealthy occupation.  My poor brother Pierre might have been alive to this day if he had taken to any other line of business!  You must take great care of your lungs, young man.  You look delicate.”

Mueller laughed, shook his head, and declared at the top of his voice that he had never had a day’s illness in his life.

Here the pretty niece again interposed.

“Ah, Monsieur,” she said, “my aunt does not understand....My—­my uncle Pierre was a house-painter.”

“A very respectable occupation, Mademoiselle,” replied Mueller, politely.  “For my own part, I would sooner paint the insides of some houses than the outsides of some people.”

At this moment the train began to slacken pace, and the steam was let off with a demoniac shriek.

“Tiens, mon enfant,” said the old lady, turning towards her niece with affectionate anxiety.  “I hope you have not taken cold.”

The excellent soul believed that it was Mademoiselle Marie who sneezed.

And now the train had stopped—­the porters were running along the platform, shouting “Courbevoie!  Courbevoie!”—­the passengers were scrambling out en masse—­and beyond the barrier one saw a confused crowd of charrette and omnibus-drivers, touters, fruit-sellers, and idlers of every description.  Mueller handed out the old lady and the niece; the fat countrywoman scrambled up into a kind of tumbril driven by a boy in sabots; the grisettes and soldiers walked off together; and the tide of holiday-makers, some on foot, some in hired vehicles, set towards the village.  In the meanwhile, what with the crowd on the platform and the crowd outside the barrier, and what with the hustling and pushing at the point where the tickets were taken, we lost sight of the old lady and her niece.